Steadfast

Chapter 2: Day 27

Colby woke to English-morning autumnal glimmer, and uncoordinated kisses nuzzled into his hair, and Jason’s body shifting against his, and Jason’s arousal blatantly pushing against his stomach. He could, he concluded, grow used to this.

They’d shifted positions somewhat overnight: still twined together, but Jason had turned to face him more closely, to pull Colby into those muscular arms and drape a leg over him. Colby had ended up nestled into Jason’s hold, face squished into Jason’s neck and chest; he did not mind, though he suspected that Jason’s half-asleep brain thought Colby was shorter than he in fact was. If he lifted his head too fast he’d smack Jason’s chin, and his toes had somehow emerged from the sheet.

He loved every bit of it. He could stay here forever. For a lifetime.

Jason kissed him again and mumbled, “Hair…”

“Yes,” Colby agreed helpfully, “that’s my hair. Will’s hair. It’s a bit too long, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” Jason stirred, moved against him again, then stiffened and loosened that grip. Awake, then. “Colby—s**t, sorry, was I—did I do anything—that hurt, or—”

“No, nothing.” He stretched as Jason’s eyes skimmed over him. “I like waking up with you. My hair appreciates it as well.”

“You’re okay.”

“Thank you for not making it a question. I am.” He had a hand resting on Jason’s chest. He turned a fingertip into a pen, wrote Jason’s name in invisible calligraphy. “I’m happy.”

“You are.” Jason glanced at his own chest: broad and tanned, under Colby’s fingers. “You seem…I don’t know. Good mood?”

“Happy,” Colby explained. “I did say.” For good measure he added exaggeratedly batted eyelashes, silly and flirtatious. “Your alarm’s not gone off yet.” Jason had a later call time—the afternoon—but had met Colby’s noting of this fact with an unassailable shrug of herculean shoulders: yes, and?

“I’m good at waking up. And you like open curtains. Two minutes. You need your painkillers, or coffee, or—”

“I need you.” He wriggled in place to underscore the point. As it were. “Will you kiss me more?”

Jason muttered something about unfair tactics, but grinned, and swooped. One big hand supported Colby’s head; Jason’s mouth was firm and commanding and devoted, claiming Colby’s lips and air and heart all over again. Jason even teased him with a bit of tongue, plunging in, asserting dominance, licking and tasting and causing Colby’s whole body to crackle.

Jason pulled back. Colby whimpered, pleading for more and unabashed about it.

Jason laughed. “Didn’t I say not yet?” Under that lay other currents: relief and interest and a hint of pride. Jason worried, Colby knew: about last night, certainly, but also in general. Jason loved the fact that Colby desired s*x with him; Jason got apprehensive about Colby and boundaries and going too fast and consent. “How’re you feeling? Seriously.”

“Oh, we’re being serious. I expect I shouldn’t say lemon meringue, then.”

“Depends on whether you like lemon.” Jason reached over, found two pillows, tucked them behind Colby’s back for reclining support. “Tell me more about your fruit scale.”

Colby adored his boyfriend. Partner. Lover. Other half. “Lemon meringue happens to be excellent. Cloudlike, airy, sweet and tart. I also quite like pineapple in just about everything. For the record, however, I’m not a fan of sour cherries. Though I suppose that’s unfair; they’re useful in some recipes. Never mind, I like all possible fruit.”

“Got it.” Jason leaned down to kiss his stomach. “You don’t want any of the possible fruit to feel unloved.”

“And what’s wrong with that? I could bake some sort of cherry galette, now you’ve mentioned it. I’ve not made anything in a while.”

“But you’re delicious.” Jason kissed him again, then bit his hip, not hard, evidently just because. Colby did not have a sufficient response; Jason licked him, and announced, “Lemon. Since that means excellent.”

Colby couldn’t not laugh. Jason’s alarm rang, laughing too, in tones of heroic early-morning cartoons.

Jason shut it off without looking. “I am asking, okay. Come on.”

“Seriously lemon meringue.” Colby met those deep dark eyes with his, heart and truth in the words. “Really more so than ever. I—I woke up with you holding me.” Still here, he did not add. Staying. With me. “I love you.”

Jason held his gaze, unwavering. “Love you. How’s the weather?”

“I thought you said we weren’t—”

“You taste too good.” Jason set a hand on Colby’s hip, and couldn’t’ve failed to notice Colby’s expectant reaction, but slowly walked the hand upward instead. Visible, no surprise touches, but drawn-out anticipation. “You said you needed me. I’m trying to listen. No overexertion. Being careful. But I want to make you feel like all the dessert foods. That sound like a good forecast?”

“Like the best meteorological prediction.” He couldn’t hold back the gasp as Jason’s fingers found his n****e and began to play: rolling, teasing, pinching. “Oh, that, please…”

“So polite this morning.”

“I want,” Colby said helplessly, “I want to be yours. I want—everything. Take care of me. Tell me what to do. Make me feel what you want me to feel. I want to—to just belong to you, Jason, please.”

“Oh, Colby.” Jason kissed him again, unhurried and thorough. The fingers did not stop moving over Colby’s n****e, and in fact got more forceful. Colby moaned into the kiss, legs spreading of their own volition. Jason put the other hand in his hair, tugged his head back, trailed kisses down his throat. “God, you’re perfect…so good, saying exactly what I like to hear…”

The kisses hesitated. Jason sat up. “You do mean it. Saying it. Not just—”

“I’m not saying what you want to hear,” Colby leapt in. “I’m saying what I want to say. What I want. Please f**k me, sir. Er. Is that right? Only I’ve never said that, the sir part, before and completely meant it. It sounded a bit odd out loud. But it was right in my head. My head is an odd place, though. Oh good heavens, please stop me talking.”

“Nope. I like hearing you talk. I keep saying.”

“Do other people talk this much when you’re—”

“Colby.” Jason regarded him with adoration and exasperation. A cool dry interested stripe of morning light streaked across the pillowcase to listen. “I’m not thinking about other people right now.”

“Oh yes. I mean of course you’re not. I didn’t think you were.”

“I know. Might have to remind you, though. I’m thinking about you.”

“What did you have in—oh!” Jason’s mouth had found his chest, and specifically his n****e, already sensitive from earlier teasing. Jason licked and sucked and even applied teeth, a sizzling starburst sensation that left Colby breathless and wordless. His c**k jumped, pushing up against his stomach. The tip was growing wet; he felt it, and saw it, gazing past Jason’s head.

Jason smirked against his chest—Colby felt it—and did that scrape of teeth and suction again, and Colby moaned involuntarily. He wanted more; he wanted that sharp sunshine flare over and over, not pain but a twinkling hint of power amid the pleasure.

Jason kissed his stomach and slid lower, looking up. His hair stood up in good-morning loops, with Stephen’s sun-streaks amid the brown; Colby’s heart turned over, a somersault of emotion.

Jason nudged his face into Colby’s hip, the crease at the top of his thigh: a demonstrative bump of nose into bare skin. Colby had not ever considered random places on his own body to be erotic; Jason playing with them turned them all to sparkling treasure.

Jason inquired, “You want me to take charge? Tell you what to do? Taking care of you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.” That grin flashed: Jason as action hero, as lover, as considerate planner of scenes. “First thing, you don’t move unless I tell you, and then you only do exactly what I tell you. Got it?”

“Yes, Jason.”

“Good,” Jason said. “So good. My Colby.”

Colby couldn’t hold back the spontaneous squeak, at that. Highly un-sexy, no doubt.

“I know you like that,” Jason said. “Being mine. Being good for me. I like that too, in case you don’t know.” He plainly did: also aroused, c**k tall and thick and flushed dark with eagerness. “Hands on your n*****s. Play with them. A little rough, not so much it hurts—I know you don’t like pain—but don’t be too gentle.”

Colby licked lips, nodded belatedly, and did as commanded. Glitter streaked outward from his chest, down his spine, between his legs. His head whirled: the feeling, and the order, and Jason’s gaze on him.

“I think,” Jason said, “I want to taste you more. I’m going to suck that fuckin’ gorgeous c**k, baby, and you’re going to lie right there and take it, everything I do to you, because I want you to feel it. I want you to watch me do it. What I’m doing to you, what I want to do to you.”

Colby tried to moan and whimper and gulp in air all at once. The resultant sound was definitely not elegant, but wholly honest and yearning.

He felt the throb of wetness bubble up at the tip of his c**k, and saw it gleaming, inches from Jason’s lips, while Colby himself could do nothing to touch it; he could only play with his n*****s, because Jason’d told him to. He nearly sobbed with need, and moved fingers more roughly, harsher, twisting, searching, craving more.

Jason bent that head and licked his tip, collecting desire. Colby did sob out loud in desperation.

Jason said, “I told you I like you talking. Talk to me.”

“What…what…I can’t think…Jason, please.”

“What do you want me to do? Tell me.”

“I…you want me to say…that you…you’re…”

“Say it, baby.”

“Oh God,” Colby breathed. “You—you want…you’re going to—to suck my c**k…oh no, Jason, I can’t.”

Jason paused to look at him, visibly weighing the strength of this protest. “Just once. For me. Love your voice. Tell me what I said I wanted to do with you.”

“You,” Colby tried shakily. “You want to suck my c**k…while I—I watch, and…and just take it, what you’re doing…everything you want to do to me, because I’m yours…oh God Jason I—”

He felt the words, the tug, the scorching heat in his cheeks and his stomach and his balls; he thought dizzily that he might somehow come simply from that, being ordered to narrate while Jason licked his length with torturous slowness, the shyness and the newness and the surrender colliding in one electric flare, even hotter for the knowledge that Jason liked this from him—

Pressure wrapped around the base of his c**k and squeezed. Colby couldn’t hold back the tiny cry.

One big hand rubbed up and down his shaft in apology, but Jason’s eyes were ruffled velvet with enjoyment. “You liked that, didn’t you, baby? You would’ve come like that, just getting off on following my orders, being my good boy. So good. So ready for me.”

Colby couldn’t think. The words sank in and penetrated and turned his body to floating sapphires, blue and endless and rich. Jason’s mouth slid down over his c**k, and that felt incredible, also endless, wet heat that surrounded his straining length and enveloped him with suction and friction and strokes of tongue and skill that blurred into infinite bliss.

He trembled, couldn’t thrust up because he wasn’t…wasn’t supposed to move…he only needed to lie still and let Jason care for him, let the waves wash over him…

Jason’s hand delved between his legs, fondled his balls—launched even more flights of pleasure—and moved further back. Rubbing at the spot behind them, then continuing excavations, finding the opening of his body.

Colby, having been ordered to watch, couldn’t look away. He saw every bit of it unfolding: Jason’s head bent between his legs, moving up and down, Jason’s hands exploring him, while Colby’s thighs spread instinctively in welcome capitulation.

He couldn’t hold back a shiver, head to toes, lost in rivers of lapidary light. It was so much, so overwhelming, overpowering.

He was Jason’s and that felt right; Jason would hold him up. But he was also falling apart, losing control, dissolving in the inexorable onslaught of care and ecstasy and relentless demands, turning him inside out—

He couldn’t form sounds. He tried again. “Jason. Jason, sir, wait—wait, stop, I—I—stop, please…”

Jason bolted upright, shaking hair back, anxiety erupting from eyes and shoulders and every flexing muscle.

“No,” Colby said weakly, “no, I don’t mean stop, I mean…it’s so much…oh, drat, what’s the…cherries? Is that a good version of yellow? Not red. Just…I can’t breathe.”

The lines on Jason’s forehead did not ease. “You can’t breathe?”

“Not like that…I’m fine…it’s only. So much. I can’t—it’s not bad, it’s—I couldn’t keep feeling—it’s too much me. I need…you, I think. Does that make any sense? I’m guessing not.”

“No, I got it.” Jason moved up, swung a leg over him, knelt above Colby’s body and took Colby’s hands in his. Colby’d forgotten they remained pressed against his n*****s; Jason gathered up his fingers and straightened them, stroked them. “Too much. It’s fine, baby, it’s okay. I forget this is new for you. I’m glad you told me. I want to know. So thank you.”

Colby, to his complete shock, started to cry.

The tears didn’t even feel bad, or wrong; he still wanted Jason, and he wanted Jason to hold his hands forever, and he wanted Jason to kneel there naked above him and smile at him exactly that way.

This wasn’t new—he’d had a previous boyfriend into kink and b**m, for heaven’s sake—

Except it did feel new. It all felt new. Shattered and exposed and iridescent. Stripped bare and held close.

He couldn’t not cry. He didn’t know why. But he felt safe with Jason kneeling over him.

Jason kissed his fingers, transferred them both to one hand, and leaned down to smudge water-drops away across his cheek. “You want to stop?”

“No!”

“Okay. We’ll leave you alone for now, okay, baby? You want to touch me?”

Colby nodded. Jason’s c**k jutted out rigid and proud, with that large shiny head; Jason held Colby’s right hand and set it against the shaft, where desire stood up like iron under heated skin. Colby curled fingers around the girth, as much as he could; he liked that, and so did Jason, from the groan.

“Do that,” Jason said, “just like that, just—more, like this, here,” and kept his hand over Colby’s, guiding the motion, the rhythm, as Colby lay beneath him and watched. Slickness beaded up at the tip; Jason moved their hands faster, in charge, while telling him how good his hand felt, how good he was being, how amazing, how perfect.

Colby was vaguely aware that he was licking his lips, and that his c**k remained stiff between his thighs, untouched but leaking steadily all the same. That dreamy jewel-like feeling swept over him anew, lifting him up in pools of topaz, aquamarine, amber, emerald. The jewels formed buoyant pools, like Jason’s eyes: paradoxically dark and clear, crackling and comforting, commanding and full of home. Colby floated there, contented and peaceful amid flowing colors.

Jason murmured, “Not gonna ask you to sit up…no hurting you…but what if I…” and bent forward more, hand braced on the headboard; that glorious c**k touched Colby’s lips. He parted them and licked at the head, the slit, the gleam of male desire. Jason’s desire. For him. His head felt dazzlingly wonderfully weightless, except that Jason was his anchor, dominant and loving. He almost wanted to laugh; he took as much of Jason’s length as he could into his mouth and licked and lapped and suckled eagerly. He wanted that. He wanted to feel Jason, to taste Jason. He liked that taste on his tongue.

Jason muttered something inaudible, and moved the hand that’d been covering Colby’s, where it’d been wrapped around the base of his shaft.

Colby missed the presence, but then Jason put the hand on his head, supported him, steadied him. Colby moaned around the c**k in his mouth; Jason swore briefly, a startled blurt of sound, and tensed, breathing fast. “Colby—”

Colby wanted to say yes, wanted to say please, wanted to beg Jason to do anything with him, to come in his mouth or all over his face or anywhere, but he couldn’t quite talk.

Jason shifted back a bit. Colby did not bother moving, mouth open and wet, Jason’s tip resting over his lips. He thought dimly that he must look thoroughly filthy, abandoned to sensation and surrendered to submission; a pulse of radiance spread through him at the thought. He was Jason’s, utterly.

“I need,” Jason panted, “I need you to—to say yes, or—or nod, or something—not gonna do this if you can’t say—”

“Yes,” Colby agreed dreamily. “Please, sir, Jason, come on me, or in my mouth, or all over me, however you want, please, I want to feel you…”

“God—Colby—” Jason’s hand landed heavily atop his again, tightening Colby’s lax grip on that lovely thickness; Jason kept their hands in place, gripping his c**k, and spurts of white heat poured out across Colby’s open mouth, cheek, face, down to his throat, everywhere.

“Colby,” Jason shuddered out, body shaking, hand keeping himself up with the aid of their headboard. “Colby, oh my God…” One or two final splashes jerked out, sticky against Colby’s lips.

Colby licked at the drops, at Jason’s c**k and the messy tip. Jason made a strangled noise and pushed his softening but still hard length against Colby’s mouth as if unable to help himself. Colby took him back in and let Jason fill up his mouth, holding that spent and substantial weight, awash with the pleasure of obedience and the wild thrumming of his own body, strung out and tranquil on the edge, waiting for Jason’s word.

Jason whispered, “Can you—could you—I want you to come, but—is that too—”

Colby blinked twice, trying to say the yes. Jason searched his face, and asked, “Can you come for me like this? If I tell you to? With me keeping your mouth all stuffed full, with me all over you, the way you wanted, covering you in it…all mine…blink twice again if that’s a yes.”

Yes, Colby told him. Yes.

“Yes,” Jason said. “Yes, Colby, my Colby, God, I love you, come for me, just like this. Without me even touching your c**k, just because I want you to, because you feel so good and you’re being so good for me and you can do this, you can, let go for me, go on, come…”

Colby felt the climax before it swept over him; felt the roar and coil and billow rising in his bones, his c**k, his balls, his spine: blinding and effervescent, white and light and euphoric. He let himself go, let himself fall into the sea. Because Jason would hold him.

He wasn’t certain when the instant of release came; he couldn’t’ve said, because it all felt like glory, tide after tide of it, rushing through him without ceasing, spilling across his stomach and dripping over his skin. The whole world went away for a while, drenched in blurry rippling coruscations.

He woke up to Jason’s hand stroking his hair, and Jason’s voice asking, with love and the faintest thread of apprehension, “Colby? Baby? You back with me yet?”

I’m here, Colby wanted to say and couldn’t. His face seemed less sticky, as if Jason’d cleaned him up a bit. He couldn’t open his eyes. Too weighed down. Too much everything, in a wondrous resonant way. His whole body felt limp and twinkly and thoroughly pleasured.

“Hey,” Jason attempted. “I’d let you rest, but we’re kinda about to be late, assuming you want to shower…and also I kind of want you to talk to me, after that? Please.”

Colby got both eyelids to cooperate, looked up at Jason, felt an inexplicable catch in his throat, and shut both eyes and shook his head. Too huge, too fast. Too clear-cut and clean-edged, this re-carved shape of his heart.

But he reached out and found Jason and held on. Jason exhaled, put a hand at the back of Colby’s head, tucked him in closer, and let him take a few wobbly breaths, safe in the dark with that unwavering support.

After a few seconds he said, muffled by Jason’s clavicle, “I’m all right, I believe.”

“Yeah? You sure?” Jason caught a strand of Colby’s hair between fingers, played with it. “That looked like a lot.” The question hovered delicately in morning mist and despoiled sheets.

“I’m sure.” One more breath. Then he met Jason’s eyes. “It was a lot. But I enjoyed it. Yes, all of it.”

“Still lemons? Or pineapple. Whichever.”

“Very much so. Candied. Sweet. Like treats. My legs’ve become custard, sorry, you may have to help if you’d like us to shower. I think I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Do you think there’s a way to eat custard in the shower? There ought to be.”

“If you mean you want me to lick your legs, I’m happy to oblige.”

“What? Oh. Oh, no, don’t mind anything that comes out of my mouth right now, you’ve turned my thoughts into pudding. I’ve just said come and my mouth, haven’t I? Now I’ll be thinking about that all day. Are you laughing? You’re laughing.”

“Not at you,” Jason denied, though his shoulders were shaking with the effort. His eyes were fluttery and glad as autumn forests. Colby liked knowing he’d caused that emotion.

Jason tried to explain, “Really not laughing at you,” and was anyway, and Colby shrugged and yawned and held onto him more tightly.

“As long as you don’t mind me rambling. It’s your fault.”

“I love you so damn much,” Jason said. “I want to carry you off to the shower and clean you up more. I tried, but I think there’s some in your hair. I kind of want to wash your hair for you. Is that weird?”

“Not at all. I’m currently made of custard, remember. I could use the assistance. I adore you with my entire heart. That was nearly a bad pun about currants and dessert food, but I didn’t think of it in time. Will you kiss me a lot in the shower? And now?”

“Always,” Jason agreed gravely, and started right away.

* * * *

Jason hadn’t had to be on set that morning. He had been anyway. Wouldn’t not be. At Colby’s side.

He watched Colby now, under pearlescent afternoon skies. They were sitting next to each other in the open carriage, the wind whipping pink into Colby’s cheeks and waltzing with his lyrically styled hair. The horses, a matched black pair, did what they were trained to do; Jason did not know much about horses, but these seemed amiable. Colby, dressed up in Will Crawford’s fashionably tight trousers and elegant peach-and-silver flowered waistcoat, had a second ago put on an angelic expression and rubbed the toe of one leather boot slowly against Jason’s more battered but respectably polished version, out of camera-sight.

Sound didn’t matter; they’d been told to simply look at each other and be in love, Stephen and Will choosing each other, choosing this. The afternoon would be full of carriage rides of various kinds: Stephen arriving at the estate, Stephen and Will departing together—which they were filming now—after Will’s recovery, and Will’s initial resolution to leave home to find his beloved captain. Not a lot of dialogue, but a lot of hopping in and out of historically accurate conveyances.

Jason watched Colby some more. He’d been directed to. He wanted to.

Under Will’s makeup—supposedly drained and recuperating, but well enough to travel—Colby’s happiness shone. He was a good enough actor that it came across as Will’s emotion: passion and devotion and decisiveness. Jason knew that was in character, but also had the memory of Colby that morning: surrendered and flying and covered in their release.

He nudged his boot against Colby’s in turn. Colby’s eyes danced. They were bluer than the sky, and held everything Jason wanted in his future.

He tried to be Stephen, reminding himself about cameras and this film. Stephen’s naval background and posture. Stephen’s bluff and hearty care and concern, unaccustomed to giving his heart away so completely, much less to someone ill and bookish and enthusiastic and stubborn, a loyal patriot and Home Office agent and beloved partner. Stephen couldn’t fight this particular battle with a ship and guns and shouted orders; he could and would stand at Will’s side and offer clumsy hands, thick blankets, endless cups of tea.

Metaphorical, of course. Written in letters, in hearts, in dreams. They’d only have a day or two left together in person. Stephen would be back at sea, in battle with Napoleon’s forces. Will would remain in the London townhouse and occasionally Lord Cary’s offices, coughing into a handkerchief and straightening those shoulders and cracking French dispatch codes. They’d both save lives.

They’d never meet—not alive—again. Both Will and Stephen knew about that possibility. They’d chosen their life despite it. Jason hurt for them; he had since first reading the script. He knew audiences would feel it all too.

Colby’s script, he remembered all over again. The thought came with uncomplicated delight this time. Colby was just as much a genius as Will Crawford, and could spin a line of dialogue into a golden net for hearts. And Colby loved him. Jason.

Looking at Colby, he thought as loudly as he could: I love you. I love you so damn much.

Stephen would think it, looking at his lover. Jason wanted to reach out and take Colby’s hand; he did it, after a moment. No one would see, not on a deserted country road, not a brief touch that might only be the gesture of a friend worried over Will Crawford’s health.

Colby smiled at him, and tightened fingers around Jason’s, picking up on the impulse. The oceans of his eyes warmed.

They did not touch long, but it was enough. The sensation sent sparks all the way up and down Jason’s spine. He thought that might forever be the case, when given the chance to hold Colby’s hand.

Forever, he thought again. Yes. Beyond this film, beyond the next. All the words they’d said, and meant.

The certainty hummed in his bones, against smoky skies and the clop of hoofs. They were certain together. Solid and real. They’d had a fight, they’d hurt each other, and they’d found a resolution. Colby trusted him; Jason had managed to say or do the right thing; they’d fallen asleep wrapped around each other. If there’d been any last lingering doubt, it’d been vanquished. All castle foundations secure.

Jason did like castles. As a fantasy-novel aficionado, and as an appreciator of Colby Kent’s banner-waving accent.

He knew Colby felt those secure foundations too. He knew it: in the outline of that magician’s smile, in the shift of a boot, in the way Colby’d spoken up when not a hundred percent comfortable that morning. Yellow, Colby’d said, not red—in fact he’d referenced those sour cherries, which made Jason grin: more food—and he’d not been dismissive of his own needs in favor of Jason’s. Colby hadn’t been scared of asking or about continuing with s*x after they’d worked it out. He hadn’t felt quite right, he’d said so, and they’d been fine. More than. Phenomenal.

Contentment sank into Jason’s bones, all the way down. From Stephen’s gentlemanly tied-back hair to Regency boot-tips.

The wind tugged at collars and shirtsleeves. The carriage rattled and lurched and bumped, making a turn. The horses swished their tails. The coachman soothed them.

They swayed over a no doubt historically accurate rut. Colby caught balance with a hand on the side of the seat. His shoulders went a little more stiff.

“Hey,” Jason said. “You doing okay?” They could talk, to some extent; the sound would be covered in post-production, and Jill had said to talk or laugh if they felt like it, for editing options. Nothing that’d visibly break character, but other than that, they had some freedom.

“Fine.” Colby waved an imperious hand. “You’d think my fictional father could afford better carriage-springs. Or roads. Or flying carpets.”

“Levitating carriages. Napoleonic War magic. Enchantments developed for the military, shared with the wealthy.”

“Naturally including my family. Though that leads to the neglect of standard earthbound roads, plainly. Perhaps some earth-mages need employment.”

“They’d love the opportunity to reinvent carriage-wheels. You’re not too sore?”

“Ah…not yet. I can feel it, but it’s not too much.” Colby’s foot tapped Jason’s again. “Another massage might be in order.”

“The actually helpful kind, or the kind that turns into, y’know, this morning?”

“Aren’t both helpful? Considering me.”

“What about you?” Jason put on a ninety-nine-percent mock glare at that. “You’re awesome.”

“I…” Colby took in his expression, and lifted expressive dark eyebrows. “I see. Both, please, then.”

Colby had spent the on-set part of the morning lying mock-feverish in bed, while Sir Laurence stood over his motionless pale form. Jason had lurked around set and disliked Colby’s sickly makeup and broken moans and rattling breaths intensely. In between takes, Sir Laurence had sat down on the bed, taken Colby’s hand, and made Colby giggle. At one point they’d spontaneously erupted into Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. Colby’d taken on Benedick, with Laurie as Beatrice. They both obviously knew the play inside and out, and made each other laugh with banter and irritation and flirtation.

Jason hadn’t really felt insecure. He’d say so, and it’d be true. He trusted Colby; he trusted Laurie, the epitome of English theatrical gentleman.

He kind of wished he’d at some point attempted some Shakespeare, though. Especially when Leo, who also was not required to be on set that day, had wandered by and shouted, “Ah, but love may transform me to an oyster!” and both Colby and Laurie had cracked up at what must’ve been some sort of Elizabethan joke.

Jason couldn’t be envious. That sickly makeup was a lie; Colby was sitting up, laughing, trading lines with Laurie. Jason would watch far worse, would endure far worse, if that meant Colby was feeling okay enough to laugh.

Colby would be okay. Maybe with some help—and, God, he hoped that suggestion’d helped; Colby hadn’t seemed upset at the mention of talking to someone—or maybe not; that’d be up to Colby.

Well. Maybe Jason’s hands could help too. He hoped so. He thought so.

He thought that he could do that: being there for Colby.

He loved thinking that.

Colby smiled at him more, and stroked back Will Crawford’s improbable hair. Jason wanted to kiss him, wanted to throw him down on carriage seats and ravish him, wanted to tenderly clean him up after.

The carriage lurched back around toward the great house. Lumbered to a halt. Stopped, horses neat and well-behaved.

“Okay!” Jill shouted. “Jason, out! Go find Andy! Colby, a few more, in the other carriage, after you change!”

Jason held out a hand for Colby to hop down. Colby’s hand felt steady in his.

Colby ran off to change at least the outer layers of Regency clothing. Jason did too, behind his own screens. Colby hadn’t asked for his company, but it was literally a quick change: Colby needed to be back in Will’s clothing from earlier in the film, less sickly makeup, plunging off to London to find Stephen. They needed to recover lost time as far as shooting today.

Jason wanted to be present for all of it, not just because he worried, but because Colby Kent acting without dialogue was a master class, and he wanted to see it. But he also had a job to do. Their shared profession.

Colby popped back out, breathless, attended by Cherry and some brushes. “I’m here!”

“Great!” Jill said. “Get in the other carriage.”

Colby tossed her an uncomplaining salute, and did. The horses stamped their feet, having been reharnessed. Jason, who liked cars and his motorcycle but generally also liked animals, gave hoofs and teeth and impressive size a respectful distance. He’d patted one of them gingerly before filming, and that’d been fine. Colby had acquired apples from Serenity the PA, and had beamed when both horses had eaten out of his hands.

“Jason?” Andy appeared, holding a clipboard and coffee. “We need you in the house. Some of that footage of you looking at artwork, the grounds through the window, this whole other life. The privilege, y’know.”

“Right,” Jason agreed, not moving. Colby had settled into the more enclosed darker carriage, the one with the family crest and springier wheels. But Jason hadn’t been in that one. No knowledge about the padding or lack thereof. Was that a tiny wince as Colby leaned back?

“Hey.” Andy shifted weight, tipped that head. Freckles radiated open honesty. “He’ll be fine. Jill’s watching him. And he’s allowed back at work, the doctors said.”

“Yeah…”

“Got a question for you.”

“Is it about bread?”

“Not this time. I swear.”

“Okay…”

“Serious question. If I, ah. Asked Colby to do something. Kinda…public but not really public…depends on the, y’know, location, and what Adrian wants…but I don’t want to ask if Colby’s gonna have to force himself to get through it. So how’s he doing?”

Jason, lost, said, “I’m lost here.”

“I, um.” Andy stared at the clipboard as if it might leap in to provide words. It refused. “Okay, look, you can’t say anything. Because I haven’t even asked yet. But I’m gonna ask Adrian to marry me, probably kinda soon, like after we get back to LA, and I’m pretty sure it’s a yes, I mean, we’ve talked about it, just, y’know, I haven’t asked. But I wanted to ask Colby and Jill if they’d stand up with me, like, groomsmen…women…whatever. But there’ll be pictures and tuxedos and all that stuff, and I won’t ask Colby to do that if he doesn’t feel up to it, because you know he’ll say yes even if he’d rather hide in a whole other building. Like, some back wing of a museum nobody goes to. Behind closed doors.”

“Oh my God,” Jason managed. “Um. Okay. Wait, hang on, you’re getting married?”

“Not yet,” Andy corrected. “But yeah, probably. That’s what I was trying to explain.”

“Holy s**t. Um. Congratulations? In advance.”

“Thanks. You see why I’m asking.”

“You’re asking me?”

Andy gave him a shrug. “As much as I love Colby, and I do, and I know he’s trying to get better about some things, you and I both know he’ll lie to my face about absolutely being okay enough to be in my wedding even if he’s not.”

“Yeah…okay, that’s…fair…” They both considered Colby for a second or two. Jason finally said, “I think he’d love being asked. I think he’ll be okay, honestly. Maybe not, like…wild bachelor parties or anything, but I think if it’s you and Jill and people he knows next to him, and you’re not asking a whole lot besides that, he’ll be excited. He knows how to handle cameras and photo shoots and the press. I know you know that.”

“Yep. And you’ll be there to protect him with all those muscles.” Andy poked Jason’s bicep with the clipboard. “I swear they keep getting bigger. Okay, good, I thought he’d be fine but I wanted to check. Now don’t say anything to anyone or I’ll make sure you have a three am call time for the rest of your life on every single film set ever. Yes, I can do that. No, I’m not explaining how.”

“I’ll be there?”

“Well, yeah, of course you’re invited.” Andy poked him again. “You’re important. Can’t have a wedding without—”

“Please don’t say a toast.”

“—serving bread rolls.”

“That’s not even a good joke,” Jason said. Andy’d said the of course as if never in doubt. Jason was a friend. Part of their group now. “I mean. You could…at yeast try.”

“I’m so glad Colby decided to have s*x with you,” Andy said. “Come on, stop staring at him, we’ve got pensive moments to shoot. Emotional. Contemplative. Powerful. Nothing…half-baked. Okay, we’re going, put the death glare away, John Kills A Baguette,” and ambled off toward the house’s interior, smirking all the way.

Jason shook his head and glanced back at the carriage. Colby put a hand out of the window and waved, with the enthusiasm of a youthful aristocrat. Jason grinned and blew a kiss, and followed Andy inside.

He worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon. Sitting in the bedroom they were using for Will Crawford’s, pretending to be sitting beside Colby. Finally able to breathe, in the wake of Will’s gradual but undeniable recovery. Able to take in the surroundings, the luxury, the wealth that glinted in gold and paintings and woven fabrics. Ancestral portraits. Fashionable wallpapers and bed-hangings. Lavish sprawling rugs and satin sheets. Even his teacup gleamed, inlaid with evidence of old money.

He stood, moved by Stephen’s restless comparable poverty. He walked to the window, stared blankly at rolling grounds and gardens. Will Crawford’s inheritance rose like an architectural masterpiece of English landed nobility. Stephen’s hands—suntanned, rope-callused, working—tightened.

He loved Will. He loved England, and that was true: the people, the earth, the beating heart and soul of a nation Stephen’d always defend. But this extravagance—

The clouds shimmered. A drop or two fell like an omen, a presaging of grief.

But Stephen did love Will, and Will would live. The rest would work out; they’d make it work. Men of action, both of them: passion they’d found in each other.

Jason, being Stephen, did not have to search hard for the smile.

He wandered through a few more rooms, Stephen exploring, in search of a servant who might bring blancmange and weak tea to Will’s bedside. He gazed at vases and tapestries; he passed under the disapproving scowls of long-ago Crawfords. His boots, well-worn, made little sound.

Andy offered a minimum of input, mostly about pacing and speed and angles. Jason liked him as a director: calm, thoughtful, laid-back. Andy trusted his actors, in this case Jason, to know about character; that didn’t mean no comment at all, but every comment had a reason, and acknowledged Jason’s choices. Like Jillian, he had a sense of humor and a generous leadership style when in charge of a scene; Jason could see the similarities. He appreciated them both.

He did some more wandering. He found young Ryan in footman’s garb and requested refreshments and also directions to the library. He found the library and regarded a universe of books, a vast literate crown jewel of the estate’s splendor, bound in red leather and tan calfskin and blue stitching; older gems in the collection glimmered dully, no doubt worth more than Stephen’s naval pay.

Most of those books did live here at the real-life Treatham estate. Colby’d said they allowed in literary scholars and historians. Colby, Jason concluded, would’ve loved to move in.

Colby’d also been right about the private library for that first s*x scene, versus this grand room. His footsteps echoed: not unwelcome, but not intimate, either.

He gathered up a few novels—light reading for Will’s bedside—and wandered out again.

Andy told him to take a break while moving cameras to the portrait gallery. Colby would, after being released from carriages, join him there; they’d stand together beneath history, and kiss softly in evening shadow.

The rain had picked up. Jason ventured out onto the front porch, wondered what the Regency name for fancy front porches might be, and watched the carriage sway and lumber back around to the front. Some mud splashed; some rocks skittered under wheels.

Colby would likely be tired. Doing better, but using strength to hold himself upright, to not put pressure on those bruises. Balancing on stiff benches.

Colby could hold himself up just a little longer, with Jason’s support—which was in-character, and would be simple—and wrapped in Will’s dressing gown and Jason’s arms. They’d kiss. And then they could go back to the hotel and take care of that tiredness. More massages. Cuddling. Maybe making it down to say goodbye to Sir Laurence, who’d wrapped at lunch and would be heading back to London in the morning, after one last dinner with everyone. Or maybe not. Depending on how Colby felt. Whatever Colby wanted, as far as being social or resting or being taken care of.

Jason traded grins with the rain. Taking care of Colby. Sounded good. Sounded great.

The carriage halted. Some more mud squished.

The door swung open. Colby popped out without waiting for a helping hand, and hopped down into mud and a puddle.

Both polished boots slipped. Skidded. Slid. Colby, already injured, couldn’t catch himself.

Jason ran. Too far away. No way to hurl arms or muscles over there in time. Heart in his mouth, choking him like the rain.

Jill and Andy moved too; but Colby was already sitting up, shaking off mud, laughing.

Laughing?

Rain plastered Jason’s hair to his face. He arrived, waterlogged and horrified, to Colby saying, “No, no, I’m fine, I honestly just slipped, I’m not hurt, I can only imagine how that’ll look on a blooper reel,” and laughing more at himself. Mud smudged Will’s fancy waistcoat, and one cheek.

“Thanks for the heart attack.” Jill crouched down beside him. Rain caught in the hood of today’s hoodie, and made her hair frizz. “You just wanted to scare us one more time, was that it?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that to you.” Colby threw her a mischievous friend-grin. “Nothing scares you, in any case.”

“Your face was awesome,” Brian said from behind the camera. “Just letting you know.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Colby,” Jason got out. His heart hadn’t quite figured out normal rhythm yet. Water dripped along his right eyebrow.

“I’m fine.” Colby turned the smile on him. Even sitting in mud, that expression folded up the world into cozy castle-spire comfort. “I wasn’t expecting slippery steps. Which is my own fault, of course. Well, I did need to change, in any case, for the next scene…”

Jason opened his mouth to say words about Colby and going home and heating pads and healing rest. Colby gave him the kind of stern look a prince might’ve given his royal champion. Jason shut his mouth, but then said, “Can I at least help?”

“Of course you can.” Jill eyed Colby. “Colby, can you get up?”

“Yes? I’m not hurt. Er. More hurt. I’d say so if I were.”

“Jason,” Jill said, and Jason stepped in and got an arm around Colby. Together, they found footing. Colby, despite protestations of health, went a little pale and put some weight on Jason.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jason nuzzled his temple, a breath and a kiss and an inhale of him, tasting dark hair and rain.

“A bit sore,” Colby conceded. “Not from this, from being bounced around all afternoon. About what we expected. Not worse.”

Colby Kent, Jason thought, would always use more words than necessary to answer a question; his heart hurt with love.

He said, “Come on,” and steered Colby back toward their trailers, behind the great house. Jillian decreed a half-hour break, ostensibly for Colby and Jason to get cleaned up and back on set; she evaluated Colby one more time, and changed it to an hour.

Jason kissed Colby again, gently, and found Steve the personal assistant hovering a few feet away. He tried to ask for Colby’s painkillers, something warm, hot coffee, with just his expression; Steve nodded and dashed away.

* * * *

Colby, freshly showered and naked under a blanket and a hot water bottle and Jason’s big hands—he’d been coaxed to lie down atop Jason on his sofa, which he didn’t object to in the least—idly considered not going back to work. He had to, of course; they had one more scene, and he wanted to do it.

But he felt marvelous. Liquid and languorous and mellow as candlewax. Safe and sound, cleansed of mud and dirt.

Jason’s hands traced aimless curlicues and shapes across his back, with care, avoiding the worst of the lingering bruises. Rain wrapped sheets of watery sound around trailer walls, closing them away from the outside. The shower, also full of Jason’s steadying hands and care, had left him warm and pink; so had the prescription painkillers, because Jason had made him take a proper full dose instead of half, and then had fed him ginger biscuits and decaffeinated pecan praline mocha, bite by bite, sip by sip.

He murmured, “How long’ve we got?” into Jason’s chest, and hoped the words emerged through dreaminess.

“About twenty minutes. We should get dressed.” Jason didn’t seem to be in any hurry, though. Those broad hands kept stroking, soothing, not putting any pressure on still-healing places. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fuzzy,” Colby told him. “You made me take all the painkillers. Hardly fair.”

“Saw you only pop one this morning. You’re supposed to be taking two.”

“As long as necessary, they said. I was fine on one. And I don’t like feeling so…blurry.”

“Oh.” Jason’s hands paused. “You…I didn’t mean to push. If this doesn’t feel good.”

“No, that’s just it, you see.” He yawned. Tried to collect thoughts. “I’d’ve said no when you handed them over, if I’d thought it was worth arguing. I’d stay right here if I could. Too comfortable. But Will, and Stephen…”

“Right, yeah. I get it. It’s a stunt guy thing, too. Working through pain, because you need to focus.” Jason set fingers on the back of Colby’s neck. Colby’s entire body became golden syrup, melting across Jason.

Who laughed, and kneaded that spot. “I totally want to keep you here. See what we could do to keep you feeling good. But…”

“I know. I’m awake.” He sighed, and pushed himself up more. “I’m all right.”

“Yeah?” Jason caught his chin with thumb and forefinger, lifted it, searched Colby’s eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Here, I’ll help you sit up…”

Colby did not require the help. He’d not been lying; he was more or less all right, and he managed to shake off gilded drowsiness with motion and another biscuit or two.

But he appreciated it. Jason, taking care of him. He considered, sitting obediently on his sofa while Jason knelt to ease Will’s boots onto Colby’s feet, that this was something Jason liked, this deliberate commanding care of someone beloved.

Colby, very used to not causing a fuss or making demands, did not quite know how to react. But Jason wanted that from him, wanted to be able to care for him, and it felt…

Well. It felt lovely. Perhaps a bit disconcerting, but that was only the newness; he liked being loved by Jason. Jason cared so much, and Colby had never felt so soft and safe and happy with someone touching him or caressing his neck or helping him dress. He’d never felt so happy ever, and he said so aloud, as Jason finished with the boots.

Jason’s inhale snagged as if startled, but his eyes held pleasure, profound and poignant. “I love knowing you’re happy. Thanks for that. Telling me.”

“I mean it,” Colby said, and Jason caught and kissed his hand, as they got up.

Back in costume and back on set, they walked through the wordless scene once for blocking and checking of camera angles—that should’ve been done earlier, but they were indeed a bit behind—and then did it for real. Colby wrapped Will’s loose silken dressing gown around himself, and let Will’s hair fall in artistic bedroom tumbles; Jason helped steady him for prescribed short walking exercise, and they both paused under the portraits, as the afternoon pooled into evening.

Acres of Stonebrook estate history stretched before and behind them. Wide windows gaped in well-bred astonishment behind priceless curtain-fabric. Wigs and gowns and jeweled ornaments sniffed at a love that wouldn’t benefit the dynasty. Sculptured busts, here and there, refused to face the intrusion.

Jason, as Stephen, touched Colby’s cheek, wondering: Will had fled all this, had run to London, for him.

Colby turned into the touch, and smiled, and put arms around Jason. They kissed like a proclamation in the cool twilight air.

They did it a time or two more, just in case. Kissing Jason was not a hardship; Colby, buoyed by painkillers and Jason’s touch, could’ve filmed all night.

Jason kissed him one final time after they cut, and began, “I know we’re supposed to be doing Laurie’s dinner party thing tonight, but if—” His phone, handed over by the other personal assistant Serenity, was chiming, and derailed the question.

“Your agent,” Colby said, remembering the ringtone. He ought to be cold, wearing only a dressing gown; oddly, he wasn’t. He had Jason’s arm over his shoulders.

“Um.” Jason hesitated. But now they were having similar thoughts about news stories and revelations and any arriving fallout; Jason sighed. “I’ll make it quick. Susan? What’s going on? If it’s about—what? They want me to what? Hang on…”

Colby did not want to interrupt, and tried to ask with only his expression. Jason tapped his nose with a finger and put a hand over the phone. “Susan says the Italian-American l***q Association would like me to come be a bisexual symbol at their parade next month. I don’t even know what that means. Being a symbol.”

“What was it you said about the bisexuality rodeo?”

“I thought it’d be more explaining, not—”

“Being a s*x symbol?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“Isn’t it?” Colby lifted eyebrows at him, and enjoyed Jason’s eyeroll plus amused snort.

Jason said into the phone, “Maybe. I’ll talk to Colby about it. What? No, I don’t know if he’d want to come along too—” He glanced over inquiringly; Colby shrugged. He wasn’t certain either. “—you what? How many interview requests? Oh s**t. Um…Colby…”

“Do you need a moment to talk to your agent?”

“Probably…”

“I’m fine. Go on.”

“Go lie down somewhere warm. Will’s bed. No going down those front steps in the rain until I get back.”

“Yes…” Colby said. “…sir.”

He hadn’t been sure about saying it. The look on Jason’s face made him glad he had.

Jason walked with him down hallways and over to Will’s room; other people had scattered, going over schedules, checking in with Jill, packing up and heading to the hotel. They were momentarily alone in the midst of this dispersal, everyone temporarily forgetting about the actors in the fuss of shifted schedules. Nobody lingered near Will Crawford’s massive bed; Jason got Colby to sit down, then to lie down, and tucked blankets around him and got back to the phone. “Susan? No, I’m still here. Tell me who’s been calling, and we can talk about some of them…no, I’m not looking at new projects yet, let’s start with the publicity stuff…”

He paced around the room while talking, and eventually out into the hallway. Colby, nestled into blankets, put his head down on a convenient pillow. The dreaminess had crept back in.

He wanted this with Jason always. Whatever the next project might be. Even if they weren’t working together, they could come home to each other; they could hold each other. Publicity obligations and paparazzi cameras paled in comparison to the rainbows of that thought.

He wanted Will and Stephen to have those rainbows too. He pictured the ending—not the book’s, but his own. Happier.

How can I get there, he thought. How can I give them that?

He’d started on it once before. He hadn’t sorted it all out. But he could. He could feel the shape of the thought. A rescue…a return…

Serenity the PA put her head in. “Mr. Kent! Colby! That’s where you went! We were looking for you!”

“Oh—I’m so sorry. Do you need me?”

“No, it’s fine!” She turned to say something to someone else, presumably announcing that yes, they’d found their vanished actor. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything? We were getting a car for you and Mr. Mirelli, to get you back to the hotel, but you’re not even changed—can I help?”

“I’m waiting for Jason, thanks. Though…could you…bring me a script copy? Mine, or a spare one? Or at least some blank paper and a pen?”

“Oh!” Serenity beamed at him. “Another idea? Like last time, on set? Absolutely!”

“Yes.” Colby discovered that, after all, saying so was easy: just like that. “Something I’d like to try to work out. Could you do that, please?”

“Totally yes!”

Jason was still on the phone, audible but not visible, by the time she returned in a flutter of black braids and tan leather jacket. “Here you go! And here’s some coffee! Sorry it’s only plain vanilla creamer, I couldn’t find anything else!”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you. You’re so awfully kind; have I told you we’re fortunate to have you on this production? And Steve as well. You’re keeping us all organized and on track.”

“Oh wow,” Serenity uttered, and blushed at her feet for a second. “How do you even do that, seriously. It’s like a superpower. I’m just gonna give you space to like work some magic? And write some things? I’ll be outside? Um, you’re awesome and it’s an honor—” She vanished, pixie-like.

Colby blinked at this bewildering departure, gave up on figuring out what he’d done to elicit superpower comments, and picked up the pen, a nice one, he noticed.

The script was a fresh one, probably a spare copy. No one’s personal notes. And lots of blank space.

He flipped to the end. He ran a fingertip over the pages. He touched the words, and the story.

He tucked toes more snugly under a corner of brocade and blankets.

The current ending—which wasn’t the real ending, not the new one he’d begun—felt like closure. It also felt that way in the novel, and it had in Ben’s first screenplay draft, and more so after Colby’d done a bit of editing. The screenplay story arc followed the romantic-tragedy trajectory: Will and Stephen coming together, tumbling into whirlwind love, defying obstacles, facing a fight, a separation, a reunion. Will’s illness, and their certainty, bedrock-strong.

The conclusion hurt, though it did not remove their triumph. Colby knew how it went; he’d written it. Lord Cary coming into Will’s study, in person. A hand on Will’s shoulder, a note handed over.

Lord Cary, with kindness, asked what Will would like to do. Options unfolded, unspoken. Retreat to home and the family estate. Summon a physician as the shock set in. Return to natural philosophy, perhaps a teaching post, perhaps leaving England altogether.

Help you, Will answered. Leaning on the love and grief and pain of the musket-ball in his chest, he said it again. Help you save as many others as we can.

Lord Cary gripped his shoulder, and nodded. The note fell to the floor; the camera would catch enough of the scribbled message. Steadfast lost in a storm, or so went the reports, based on scattered wreckage. No survivors recovered.

They could keep that. Colby stared at pale paper. It tantalized him.

If the Steadfast had been lost in a storm…but if they’d managed to find an island, shelter, broken bones hurled up onto dry land…if someone else had found them, a merchant ship, perhaps…

He wanted Stephen to be heroic, one more time.

So, then. An English convoy. Ships escorting supply barges. They’d be spotted and fired on by the French, no doubt, being a plump and tempting target. And Stephen would end up taking command, the way he naturally would in a crisis. They might’ve lost one home in the Steadfast, but he was a captain, and he had a crew he’d saved, who’d stand at his side.

They’d bring a captured French warship back to London as a prize, while Stephen, wounded, recovered along the way.

None of that needed to be on screen. All implied. But the news, yes…the arrival, the stir…coming from the West Indies, Stephen would sail straight for London, and no one would know, since any message sent ahead would take nearly as long…Will wouldn’t know, wouldn’t expect a return…

He had it. He had it. He yanked script pages closer, brought pen to paper.

Time had passed, of course. They’d see Will working, saving lives, solving ciphers and issuing orders. Stacks of papers, maps, hasty notes. Half-drunk cups of tea. He’d pause every so often to cough, to let a hand tremble. One of the notes, from Lord Cary’s personal physician, suggested a warmer climate, better air, away from London. It’d be visible, unanswered, on the desk.

They’d see Lord Cary in his own office, also isolated, also drowned in work. They’d see flat grey skies. Drizzle over cobblestones. Newspapers and reports: the war ending, Napoleon’s defeat, orders to bring farflung ships and men back home.

They’d see Alec the secretary receive a note, and jolt upright in astonishment unbecoming of a spymaster’s assistant; Lord Cary looked over, and Alec handed over the note, and they both got up and turned to the window, and the view of London, where the camera would catch ships’ masts on the Thames…

Anticipation built. Colby’s handwriting got messier. He didn’t care.

He’d written a version of this ending already, with Will back at the family estate and Stephen arriving, but that wouldn’t work—Will would remain in London and do what he could, for as long as he could, so this version would have to be new—

But he knew how to do it, he could feel it, the words were at his fingertips and flooding through pen-ink and spilling free—

Will sitting at his desk, in the London townhouse study. Will finishing a line—part of the book, not wartime messages but his and Stephen’s story—and setting the pen down. Slow, that’d be: a reprieve from boulders, a closing of eyes for an instant.

Will, as Colby’s pen flew, put both hands on the writing-desk. Pushed himself up, a young man grown too old too soon, and straightened shoulders, stretching. Ink stained one sleeve; he hadn’t noticed, or if he had he’d not minded.

He moved to the window, loosening stiffness and weary posture; he touched the glass and the world outside the way he’d once touched a ship’s porthole in a captain’s cabin: dreaming of the world and beckoning horizons.

Will let himself smile, though it was a smile that visited gravesides on sunny days, with flowers.

Outside, Colby wrote, a carriage halted. A man stepped out—only seen from the back, and clumsy, still growing used to a new kind of balance, a lopsided wounded body.

Inside, Will took a breath, and lifted his hand away from memories. Seeing the past, half-turned, he’d not noticed the man alighting from the carriage. He moved back toward the writing-desk, a step.

Thomas the footman flew into the room. Wig askew. Gasping. Etiquette shredded by the revelation, by the knowledge of what this meant. “Will—my lord—there’s—your Captain Lanyon, he’s—you won’t believe—”

Will’s breath trembled on his lips, and all motion stopped: every atom afraid to grasp at hope.

Stephen entered the room.

A stripe of sunlight fell across his face. One sleeve, pinned up and empty, hung like a banner: proof of loss and survival. He’d grown thinner, but he was himself, and he came through the doorway with some desperation, searching.

They gazed at each other, and found each other.

Stephen whispered, “Will,” and Will heard the echo of every war-torn night, every fear that a too-late return would mean black-edged windows framing Will’s ghost, every shuddering shaking recognition that they were both present and alive.

Will flung himself across the room. Stephen’s good arm folded around him. Their mouths crashed together, and drank each other in.

Colby exhaled. His hand was cramping. Tears prickled at the backs of his eyes.

He wrote the ending scenes, the montage notes. Will and Stephen setting sail. The Crawford estate blooming into a hospital for wounded men. Lieutenant Harper and his wife having a baby, and then, a year or so after, also setting sail—and their boat putting into a harbor in glowing Mediterranean waters, a blue and gold and white world, perfumed by floppy flowers and full of curious animals and leaves and old Roman ruins for a natural scientist to explore and publish monographs about.

Red flowers, he thought. Like the one Stephen’d brought home, crushed in a frantic coat-pocket, when fighting for Will’s life.

Will and Stephen leaned over a balcony to welcome the visitors; Will waved, and Stephen drew him in for a kiss, lingering and laughing, while friends arrived and white curtains fluttered and seas sparkled, under the sun.

He set down the pen. He swiped a hand over his face.

He knew this was right. He felt it.

Jason hadn’t come back yet. Colby sat up, clutched script pages, let his heartbeat leap along with the rain.

He wanted to share this. He needed to share this. The need bubbled over like champagne, like light, like stars.

He’d share it with Jason first. Then with Jillian. With everyone. With someone else in particular. He wanted to ask about this one before committing it to film. About, if not permission, a blessing to make these changes.

He dove out of bed, tripped over Will’s dressing gown, apologized to fabric, regained balance, and ran for the door.

He nearly collided with Jason, who’d been returning. Jason almost dropped the mobile phone, getting hands into place to steady him.

“Jason! Jason—sorry, sorry, I’m interrupting, you were on the phone, but I need your help—” He put out a hand, caught Jason’s arm. “This is important and—”

He saw Jason’s expression, then: huge eyes, parted lips. He realized belatedly that his own hand was on Jason’s bicep, as if he’d needed support. “Oh—yes, sorry, but I do need you—”

“Colby,” Jason said. Serenity the PA, who’d been true to her word about guarding the door, took a tactful step into the background, though close enough to eavesdrop. “Of course I’m here. Are you okay? What happened? What’s wrong? Does your back feel worse?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He added, because those big soulful eyes seemed unconvinced, “Truly, honestly, I am. I promise.”

“You said you needed help.” Jason put his other hand over Colby’s, gathered fingers, held them. Colby melted at this gentleness; Jason squeezed very lightly. “Please tell me what happened.”

“Nothing. Or…well, something. Fictional! I mean I wrote something.” He waved script pages, belatedly. “I need to talk to you. And Jillian. And potentially someone else, if he’ll agree to it. I’ve got an idea. About a happy ending.”